


Open and Bright Sky

by scratchedandinked



Category: Black Sails
Genre: Basically everything bad has happened, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Flint shaves his head, M/M, Post Season 2, Secret Relationship, but there shall be comfort
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-19
Updated: 2021-03-19
Packaged: 2021-03-27 22:42:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,133
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/30129990
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/scratchedandinked/pseuds/scratchedandinked
Summary: "He begins shaving in harsh strokes, like scraping bark from a tree. The hair flutters off and into the breeze, joining the rest overboard. He runs one hand over the skin, his hand locked in a curved claw over his head, the other grips the blade and follows closely-- too closely-- after it. It's an echo asking for injury. It's a motion of helplessness. It's an act that needs to be stopped. Something to put some pressure on the wound, stop the ache. Wherever it was."[prompt: do you think when flint shaved his hair silver helped with the back? (the answer is yes)]
Relationships: Captain Flint | James McGraw/John Silver
Comments: 2
Kudos: 14





	Open and Bright Sky

**Author's Note:**

> Many thanks for [@vamp1rate](https://vamp1rate.tumblr.com/) on tumblr for the prompt!

Flint begins by shouting for someone get him a pair of shears. Then he begins snipping his hair down down to the scalp, as close as he can. His neck and wrists are still raw from the chains, his eyes are strained and red, and his fiery hair is being extinguished in front of them. Silver stands back and watches, gauging how much time he has from starting toward Flint before he disagrees with the interference-- and the shears become a weapon. Silver thinks he's got at least a few steps. So he takes them.

The deck has cleared, the crew busying themselves almost out of courtesy. But Silver knows there are eyes and ears listening out of curiosity. He approaches delicately.

"Flint, is everything alright?" It's just about the dumbest question he could've asked, but after a recoil and another step, Silver realizes he hasn't heard him. He tries again. "Flint."

Flint is staring out the side of the ship, taking the flares of hair by the fistful and cutting them off with sharp, blunt moves of the shears. He looks like the world is both below and beyond him; his body stuff and rigid, his breathing deep and agonizingly steady. He is holding together by a thread of threads. A shred of hope Silver has no idea he was hiding. He prays Flint doesn’t accidentally cut that too.

"You're going to catch your finger." Silver says, close enough to lower his voice to a whisper. Flint is grasping at the very shortest of his hairs, the shears with barely enough space to slip underneath his fingers.

"Well get me a razor then." Flint says, his voice crackling from hoarseness. "Someone! Get me a blade-- now." He seems to know of his audience.

Silver adjusts his weight and leans against the side of the ship, his crutch resting between his knees. Flint doesn't move his eyes from the horizon, his hand outstretched and waiting. It forms a tight fist when the straight razor is handed over-- and a bowl of warm water passed nervously to Silver, who presents it to Flint as sternly as he can, voiceless and unsure.

Silver's sure Flint will try to reach out to the sea and dunk the blade in his fixated landscape, try to bring it all to his hands and hold it tight, but no. Instead Flint splashes his hands into the water and runs it over his scalp before dunking the blade.

He begins shaving in harsh strokes, like scraping bark from a tree. The hair flutters off and into the breeze, joining the rest overboard. He runs one hand over the skin, his hand locked in a curved claw over his head, the other grips the blade and follows closely-- too closely-- after it. It's an echo asking for injury. It's a motion of helplessness. It's an act that needs to be stopped. Something to put some pressure on the wound, stop the ache. Wherever it was.

"Flint,"

"Silver." He says as if calling him from below deck. It's a summoning call, not an answer. Silver touches his shoulder and breaks his eyes from the sea. Flint is not startled, but he does not look pleased. He thrusts the blade toward him-- handle first.

"If you are planning on threatening me, you should do so correctly." Silver says retracting his hand.

Flint blinks twice, his eyes losing their sharpness and looking lost. They stay lost as he scans over Silver, settling on his hair.

"I can't do it all."

"It seems you've done quite enough already."

"Silver," he says. The loss isn't coming, for once, as he looks at Silver. For once the look is asking, it's _begging_. "The back."

"Oh." Silver takes the handle, fixing his grip as carefully as he can without looking armed. "Then let me h--" Help shouldn't be the word. Help is optional and voluntary. Silver is doing what is dire. It's his duty, to aid and to care. But then again, help is what lovers do one is weak or tottering on an edge of something neither can the bottom of. Help is a language they both refuse to speak but know the other can understand. "Let me help you, Flint."

It’s a quiet exposure, one that’s never met such an open and bright sky, but it isn’t argued. Silver offers a gentle gesture forward. Flint turns away and bows his head. The back of his head has thin, uneven strips of hair. He’s a mess and it’s appropriate. Of course it is. Silver wets the blade again and places his hand on the top of Flint’s head, steadying him. It’s the firmness of an embrace that can’t be seen. He hopes it reaches.

He’s afraid of startling Flint but as he drags the blade down his scalp, he is still. He is patient, allowing Silver’s hands to feel from his front hairline back, ear to ear, feeling the evenness of the shave. He lets Silver bend his ear down and flick away the corner of hair there. He remains still, but Silver can tell he’s trembling. 

There is a volatility to their gentleness, a willingness to burst at any moment. Maybe it’s the extra eyes and ears, at any moment invading their removed-- but still intimate-- moment. Maybe it’s Silver, the closeness of him after the worst has happened to them both. Both unspoken still, Silver’s touch taking in the ache as deeply as he can-- willing enough room within himself to hold it. He wants to take it, take it all, but he knows he isn’t able. Not now. Not when he still needs Flint in his own way.

“Now you look like a proper captain.” Silver says, settling the razor in the bowl. “I’d let you lead us aground and straight into Hell.” It was almost an question of _would Flint-- was he going to?_ It didn’t matter, Silver still meant it.

Flint ran a hand over his head, turning back to face Silver. There isn’t relief as Silver had hoped, but there is pause. There’s a moment where the pain isn’t growing barbs and consuming Flint from the very inside out. His eyebrows are furrowed, in a way they usually are when he looks at Silver, alone and deeply confused to what words to say or actions to take in the darkness of their secrets.

Maybe the words will come to Flint when Silver is cradling him again, no eyes or audience. The gentle rocking of the waves speaking for them both as they try to find the bit of humanity and peace they kept buried in the other. In case the world bottomed out-- as it had-- and there was nothing left but the other.

“Thank you, Silver.” is enough for now.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading! Find me on tumblr [@gaytransflint](https://gaytransflint.tumblr.com/)  
> Feel free to send prompts!


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